Page 34 of Grumpy Glitter Christmas
Grant stared at that word—charming. Everything that mattered to him was charming in Victoria’s vocabulary. Quaint. Small. Beneath serious consideration.
He typed back:I’ll let you know.
As he drove home through quiet, snow-dusted streets, Grant couldn’t shake the feeling he was standing at a crossroads, and choosing the wrong path would cost him something he’d only just begun to realize he wanted.
Eleven days until the gala.
Everything was about to get significantly more complicated.
CHAPTER TEN
The ballroom tree arrived at two o’clock on a Monday afternoon that was already running behind schedule.
Felicity had been in the bank since seven that morning, working through her checklist with the grim determination of someone who could feel time slipping through her fingers like sand. Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours until the gala, and her to-do list seemed to multiply every time she crossed something off.
She was adjusting the auction display signs for the third time—because the lighting had changed and the placement looked wrong and she was possibly losing her mind—when she heard the rumble of a truck engine outside.
Through the front windows, she saw Brice’s flatbed pulling up to the exterior entrance of the ballroom, a massive shape wrapped in netting strapped to its bed.
The ballroom tree had arrived.
“Finally,” she breathed, grabbing her coat and heading for the back corridor. Grant was already there, having emerged from his office the moment he’d heard the truck. He had hisclipboard, naturally, and was pulling on his own coat with brisk efficiency.
“The delivery is early,” he said, checking his watch. “We scheduled for two-thirty.”
“It’s two o’clock. That’s practically on time by tree delivery standards.” Felicity pushed through the exterior door into the cold afternoon air. “Let’s just be grateful it’s here.”
Brice was already unloading, working with the same methodical competence he brought to everything. The tree was enormous—easily fourteen feet, maybe more. Even wrapped in netting, its presence was commanding.
“Afternoon,” Brice said, nodding to them. “Where do you want it?”
Grant pulled out his phone, consulted what appeared to be a diagram. “Center of the ballroom, approximately eight feet from the stage, accounting for visual sightlines and traffic flow patterns.”
Brice stared at him. “Center of the room. Got it.”
They maneuvered the tree through the exterior ballroom door—which, mercifully, was wide enough for the purpose—with significantly less drama than the lobby tree had generated. Brice knew what he was doing, and the space was larger, giving them room to work. Within twenty minutes, the tree was standing in its heavy iron stand, netting removed, branches spreading in all their magnificent, fragrant glory.
It was perfect.
“Good?” Brice asked, already gathering his equipment.
“It’s beautiful,” Felicity said, circling it slowly. “Absolutely perfect.”
Grant was taking photos with his phone, probably for documentation purposes, but she thought she saw something like satisfaction in his expression. “It’s acceptable.”
“High praise,” Brice said dryly. He nodded to Felicity. “Good luck with the rest of it.”
After he left, Felicity and Grant stood in the ballroom, taking in the tree. The industrial heaters had done their job—the space was warm now, almost comfortable. The sealed floor gleamed. The chandelier crystals caught the afternoon light streaming through the tall windows. With the tree as a centerpiece, she could finally see it—really see it. The vision she’d been carrying in her head for weeks, starting to take solid form.
“We still need to decorate it,” Grant said, practical as ever.
“I know.” Felicity pulled out her planner, flipping to her Monday checklist. “But that’s not even the half of it. I need to hang the white silk drapes over the windows, finish the lighting on the north wall, set up the welcome table in the lobby, confirm the placement for the orchestra, coordinate with the caterer about the staging area—” She heard her voice climbing, that edge of panic she’d been fighting all week breaking through. “I’m behind. I’m so far behind.”
Grant was watching her with a careful, assessing look. “We can finish the tree tomorrow.”
“No.” The word came out sharper than she intended. “No, we can’t. Tomorrow is Tuesday—the linens arrive, and I have to train volunteers on table setup. On Wednesday I’m meeting with the florist, and the lighting crew arrives for the chandelier installation. Thursday —,” She stopped, took a breath. “I can’t push anything. The timeline is too tight. If I don’t start decorating this tree tonight, it won’t be ready.”
She looked at him, trying to project confidence she didn’t feel. “Just give me the key. I’ll lock up when I’m done. You don’t have to stay.”
